Kordath Bleu sat in silence, cigarette burning in one hand, bottle in the other. He had a prime view from the out cropping he'd chosen as his perch for the battle below. Four armies had taken the field, three working alongside one another as best they could with the lack of trust between them. It was hard to believe a Clan of Dark Jedi wouldn't opportunistically stab an ally of convenience in the back when the time was right.

Not that it had mattered, assaulting the forces of the Iron Throne on their own ground had been daring, a distraction for those who'd been sent to confront the Grandmaster. Kordath wasn't a warrior and he wasn't an assassin. He sat and watched as the Iron Legion overran position after position, and waited for them to finish slaughtering the Resistance forces that had been arrayed against them. Eventually they'd reach him as well, he was certain. He intended to be good and drunk by than.

A lack of response from the team sent to hunt down Pravus was a telling sign. The Clans had overplayed their hands, this was the end.

He took a pull from his bottle, and waited.

It was as though the gods wept crimson tears of blood.

It seemed to accumulate in the air and coat anyone that came within the vicinity. Bodies lay crumpled, wounded cried out but the uninjured weren't occupied with their well being.

By the time the Arconan's arrived it was difficult to ascertain friend from foe, those who attacked were cut down with prejudice. The rest were left to fight their battles. Mingled into the out cries of those dying were the battle cries, and the silent but equally felt relief of the Shadow Clan's arrival.

No pause was given, no ground and no mercy.

The acrid metallic tang invaded the senses and there was nothing left but rage.

For the dying.

For the dead.

And for the oppressed.

None could find hope here, the last stand, desperate and savage.

Abadeer leaned heavily on the wall of the trench he’d just slid into. His left arm had been hit by a blaster, and it hung limply at his side. Taasii panted heavily, he’d been in the fighting for hours. Both the Plagueis and Tarenti forces were devastated at this point. They had no hope of winning this fight, at this point it was a matter of who would survive. Abadeer was determined to get out alive, he’d always survived and he always would, but now though his primary concern was his own safety, he was an Aedile and he had people to look after as well.

Taasii steeled himself and started running through the battlefield to locations where he knew his people to be, gathering what was left of House Karness Muur, and moving bak to the ships. Though Tarentum was an ally, Abadeer felt no cares for them. If they survived, fine. If they didn’t, that was no skin off his back.

As Abadeer directed his forces aboard the shuttle, he heard sounds overhead of approaching ships. At first his heart sunk, thinking that these were reinforcements of the Iron Legion, but soon he recognized it for what it was. The fleet of Arcona, the Shadow Lady and her forces were here, and they didn’t seem to be siding with the Iron Legion. This was just what Abadeer needed, a diversion to get his people out of the battlefield alive.

Post Mission Sitrep delivered from Major Livana Agrona to Atty, at the tide of the battle at a portion of her Squad's narrow escape from death, I hope you enjoy it ^^"

The Resistance leader could not even scream her denial. A thousand explosions pounded her brain when the Grand Master unleashed a salvo of Dark Side energy against her consciousness, a thousand realizations of impending and unavoidable disaster. She leaped from her throne, slender hands twisting and clenching in the air as though they were trying to find something tangible to grasp, something that wasn’t there.
Atyiru’s breath rasped in labored gasps and wordless snarls issued from her gulping mouth. After a moment in which she could not calm herself, she heard one sound more clearly than the din of her own contortions. Behind her came the slight hiss of the wicked blade of opportunity. The Shadow Lady spun about there, and there stood Teylas, his face grimly and determinedly set and his blade between them.
“I had hoped that my time of ascension would be many years away,” the upstart Consul said calmly. “But you are weak, Atyiru, too weak to hold the First Clan together in the trials that will follow our-your-failure.”
Atyiru wanted to laugh in the face of her attacker’s foolishness. For some reason, though, she could not find the courage or conviction to refute her aggressor at that moment. She watched, mesmerized, as Teylas’ arm slowly reared back and then shot forward. The blade unfurled its deadly edge toward the Consul of Arcona. The teeth of the blade came on eagerly and dived into Atyiru’s flesh with all the Dark Lord’s fury behind them. Searing agony coursed through Atyiru’s body, jolting and racking her and leaving an icy numbness in its wake.
Teylas stepped over her fallen husk and climbed the perfectly ornate steps to the Serpentine Throne. Despite what would come next, he could not help but smile at the simple pleasure of being the First Consul of the Dark Brotherhood.